To say that the last year has been a whirlwind roller coaster would be an absolute understatement. In that time frame I quit my job, moved to Hong Kong with my husband, and began navigating this entirely new world I was living in. After six months of our adventures abroad, to our surprise and joy, we found out we were expecting our first child. A daughter. Although we still felt like kids ourselves, we were excited to tackle parenthood. Our minds raced daily: what would she look like? How tall would she be? What would her personality be like? Then of course more practical questions like: What will our birthing plan be? Once she’s here, how many night time feedings will she need? And seriously, what is a nipple shield…and do I need one?

I downloaded the apps. Read the books. Ate healthy. Worked out moderately. At our 12-week appointment we celebrated reaching the proverbial “safe zone” and were thrilled to begin the next phase of the second trimester. Selfishly, I was excited to not throw up in public anymore. It was all happening. Our doctor even said the word “perfect”. We were going to be parents. Everything was perfect.

It’s hard to even begin this next sentence. At our 16-week routine checkup we discovered that our daughters heart had stopped beating around week 15. There were no warning signs. No bleeding or cramping. It’s because of this that our doctor believes it was likely a cord accident, but you never really know. She was gone. And nothing was left in the wake, but unanswered questions; shock and sorrow.

You hear about these things happening in the world, but you never think they’re going to happen to you. How could this be possible? We were in the second trimester. Less than two weeks prior, I had another visit where I saw her moving on the monitor, perfectly normal. I had a little bump growing. She had clothes hanging in her closet. And a bedroom with floral decorations that I was just starting to collect. She had a name.

Unfortunately, there’s no guideline on how to get through this. As much as I desperately searched for resources or direction on what I was supposed to do, I came up short. I think that’s the thing with loss and grief. There is no set way to act or words that anyone can tell you to make it better. The ache still remains. I think to some degree it probably always will.

There are days where I feel like I’m just a robot going through the motions of everyday life. Days that I am incredibly angry. Days where I try to be happy, and then feel guilty about it. Days where I wonder if I will ever laugh again. Days where I question every single thing about what I did during those 16 weeks – or what I didn’t do. Days where I question my body.

I didn’t write this post for sympathy, or to be seen as some sort of victim. I wrote it because reading and listening to others’ stories who have gone through similar experiences (I still have a hard time using the M-word) has been one of the few things that has helped me get through this. Ironically, I found in my research, that few women even talk about this. I feel like we need to change the discourse and not feel ashamed of our bodies or ashamed towards our individual journey towards pregnancy. I know it’s also a very difficult topic to discuss, but finding strength in others is something that has helped me. And my hope is that I can help someone else. I was so naïve when all of this happened. It’s hard enough going through the physical pain of losing your child in such a way, but it’s absolutely nothing compared to the emotional pain.

The silver lining to all of this is that I’ve come to realize just how unbelievably lucky and grateful I am for the love that I have in my life. I have the most caring and sympathetic husband, and two awesome families on both sides. I have fantastic friends who have extended their hearts and been there for me, even through the miles that separate us. And I know this is corny, but I also have a crazy, adorable dog who wakes me up every morning with wet kisses to the face and is always right by side. I have so much. And I am so appreciative of all of you.

Unfortunately, what I don’t have, and what I will never have, is this one little girl who left us too soon. And while I continue to try and make peace with this, it gives me a lot of comfort knowing that I have shared her existence with you. That you know how much she mattered and that she was loved.

Today, weeks later, Dave and I are still learning how to cope. We’ve planned a few trips for the remaining summer and fall, including when her due date would have been. Now that he’s gone back to work, we try to meet for lunch a few times a week, and plan weekend activities to keep ourselves busy. We still talk about her a lot. We know that someday we’ll be parents. And some little babe is going to be quite lucky to have Dave as their daddy.

And lastly, speaking of Mr. Dave, I’ll close this out with a message to him: I don’t think there was a moment between leaving the hospital and coming home that you ever let go of my hand. Thank you doesn’t even come close to the appreciation I’ve felt towards you every moment of every day that has passed since all of this happened. You are my true partner and best friend. I am unequivocally, without a doubt, in love with you, Dave. You saved me.

I'll be seeing you

In every lovely summer's day

In everything that's light and gay

I'll always think of you that way

I'll find you in the morning sun

And when the night is new

I'll be looking at the moon

But I'll be seeing you